


Almond Milk

by stover



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkward Flirting, Bad Flirting, Bad Jokes, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Coffee Shops, Lactose Intolerance, Love at First Sight, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-01 10:05:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11484099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stover/pseuds/stover
Summary: Lance is proud to say that, of all the things he could’ve picked up from this shitty job, his ability to look a blank-faced dumbfuck straight in the eye and not blurt out the first insult to come to mind ranks second only to the lord and savior Jesus Christ himself.





	1. don't choke and die, lance

**Author's Note:**

> there are so many coffeeshop aus in this fandom, why do i even OTL
> 
> original idea comes from [this post](http://s-tover.tumblr.com/post/162912041450/yet-another-voltron-headcanon) on tumblr.

He’s sweaty and sore and sticky and he hates his job. The thought of having to service another person makes him want to scream.

“Can I get a large green tea frap with raspberry syrup, please? And java-chips. Wait— No java-chips. Do you still do those graham cracker crumbs? I want that, instead. On second thought, add those java-chips. _And_ the graham cracker crumbs.”

Lance keeps the same bright, dazzling smile he’s had on since his shift first started at ten in the morning.

It’s two-o’clock, now.

With a sharpie, Lance checks off the appropriate tags on a new plastic cup, adding shorthand for java-chips and graham cracker crumbs on the side. “Will that be all?” he asks.

The customer hesitates. Their eyes drop to the pastries on display. “Uhhh…”

Lance is proud to say that, of all the things he could’ve picked up from this shitty job, his ability to look a blank-faced dumbfuck straight in the eye and not blurt out the first insult to come to mind comes second only to the lord and savior Jesus Christ himself.

When the blank-faced dumbfuck finally goes away, he steels himself for the next one with a fresh coat of his best _“Hello, I have to keep this fucking job no matter what”_ smile and prepares himself to say, _“Hi! What’ll you have today?”_ But, for some reason, it comes out all wrong. Instead of his usual greeting, he says, “Hello, I have to keep this fucking job no matter what.”

Across the counter, his next customer, who’s definitely _not_ a blank-faced dumbfuck, gives him a shocked look.

Lance is shocked too. More than shocked, actually — mortified, is probably closer to how he's feeling, especially considering how he's mentally setting himself on fire and dusting his own ashes away. Which is a mistake, because the stall time lets him get a good look at the guy who’s standing in front of him, which is bad because — whoa, this guy’s _cute._

And just like that, Lance turns himself into the very thing he hates most about his job — a blank-faced dumbfuck that says, “Uhhh…”

Lucky for him, the guy on the other side only gives him a look of understanding. “Long day?”

As discreetly as he can, Lance breathes a sigh of relief. “You have _no_ idea,” he says, twirling the sharpie between his fingers. He wonders if this looks cool. Is pen-twirling still cool? Does this guy think it’s cool?

“Do you have almond milk?”

He stops twirling the sharpie. Normally, it irritates him when people go out of their way to dress up their drinks with off-mainstream choices. Do they think it makes them look cool? Does this guy think it looks cool? Should Lance think it looks cool?

 _…Shit,_ he hasn’t replied yet!

“Sorry,” he says, and he surprises himself by how genuine it sounds, “We only have skim milk. Our almond cows ran away.”

Aaaaand, there it goes, folks! His last shred of coolness! Hahahahaha—

He fucking hates his job.

There’s a very light, very warm sound that comes from the other side of the counter. Lance balks when he sees it— the other corner of the guy’s mouth turning up, the guy’s lips parting ever so slightly, the soft crinkle at the corners of his eyes—

Is this guy actually laughing at his shitty joke?

_Marry me._

“Ahaha, what?”

Shitshitshit _shit_ — _ABORT ABORT ABORT—_

“Sorry, it’s— The music’s kinda loud in here. I didn’t hear what you said.”

Ohjesuschristthank _god—_

“Oh, uh… I asked if skim’s okay.”

The guy’s smile drops. So does Lance’s telepathic messages of _“please marry me.”_ An awkward frown mars the stranger’s face. “Uh, actually— I’m lactose intolerant.”

“What,” says Lance, because his mind is too busy wondering if this guy can still eat cake, because milk goes into cakes, right? You need milk to bake a cake, right? So what’s gonna happen to their wedding cake??

Shit, the guy’s talking.

“—is okay. Can I get an earl grey?”

Lance puts on his best dazzling smile and, for once, _desperately means it for what it is._ “Sure,” he says. “Will that be all?”

The guy hesitates. His eyes drops to the pastries on display. “Uhhh…”

Lance wants to lowkey slap himself and wake the fuck up. Because despite doing what every blank-faced dumbfuck customer does, he still doesn’t have it in him to call this guy a blank-faced dumbfuck. Which means this isn’t just a crush. This has gone beyond the level of a crush. And all within a grand total of five whole minutes. Either this guy really _is_ as amazing as Lance’s mind was sizing him up to be, or Lance is a very lonely, attention-starved little man-child.

A large, heavy hand suddenly comes down on the top of the glass pastry display. Lance jumps and jerks his head around. It’s Hunk.

Hunk grins, tapping the front of the glass above a few selections. “I _highly_ recommend the cranberry-almond scones. Freshly baked on site, by yours truly. An old family recipe that’s guaranteed to knock your socks off. The strawberry tarts are killer items, too — _also_ baked by yours truly.” Then, Hunk leans back and shrugs his shoulders, waving a hand over the small collection of blueberry muffins on the stand. “Eh, those are okay, too.”

“Hey!” shouts a voice Lance recognizes to be Pidge, “I’ll have you know I baked them with love!”

Hunk laughs and turns back to Lance’s customer with a broad grin. “Yeah, they _are_ pretty good, not gonna lie. I mean,“ Hunk slings an arm over Lance's shoulders and gives a loving, hard shake, “they’re his favorite, you know. He stuffs them down his throat on his breaks like a starved man, like— three, four at a time. I’m always freaking out he’ll choke on ‘em and die one day—”

Lance elbows Hunk and laughs loudly. “Ah, hahahaha!” Lance’s smile turns strained and he grits out, “You’re so _funny,_ Hunk!”

“Okay.” The guy speaks suddenly, surprising them both. He points to the muffins. “I’ll take two.”

Lance stares at him. “Uhhh…”

“Coming right up!” Hunk says, opening the display case from the back and opening a paper bag. “Two, right? That’ll be— what, Lance?”

He jumps back to the register, frantically tapping against the screen. “Three-fifty. No, wait—  _Five_ -fifty,” he says, quickly grabbing an empty cup and turning around. He rips open the jar for earl grey and follows the tiny instructions under the cap telling him how many teaspoons to for what size cup, and how hot the water should be, and—

“Here you are,” he says at last, sliding the cup of tea over the counter with an awkward laugh. “Almost forgot.”

The guy doesn’t laugh with him. Instead, he takes his tea and the paper bag of muffins, and quietly pulls a muffin from the bag. This, he sets on top of the plastic lid of his tea. The other muffin, still in the bag, gets placed on the counter. It slides towards Lance.

“For you,” he says, a corner of his mouth quirking up. “Don’t choke on it.”

Lance wants to DIE.

Hunk’s hand comes down on his shoulder. “Aw, thanks for worrying about my best bud over here,” he says. “What’s your name?”

Lance could shed a tear because DAMN, talk about smooth.

“Keith.”

“Keith,” Hunk repeats, stretching out the sound of his name and nodding his head, as if he was searing it into his brain. “Thanks again, man. If you come back again, ask for Hunk — your next drink’s on me.”

Lance almost forgets to breathe, because _DAMN,_ TALK ABOUT BEING SMOOTH??? TWICE IN A ROW, HUNK????

Keith’s eyes light up, obviously having taken the bait. “Really? Thanks! I guess I’ll see you around, then?” He waves at them both, and when Keith looks at him at last, Lance can only manage a tiny, shaky smile and an awkward wave.

As he watches Keith disappear out the front door, Lance whispers a quiet prayer, _“Please marry me.”_

The next customer on line overhears his prayer. “U-Uh, what?”

“Not _you,”_ he snaps, and slaps the sharpie on the counter. “Hunk! I’ll be back in five!”

Hunk comes over to take his place at the counter with a bright, “Okay.”

“Hey, that’s not fair!” Pidge cries from the screaming latte machines. _“I’m_ supposed to be on break next! Lance! Lance, come back! Where are you going?”

To chase after the man of his dreams. _That’s_ where, you silly girl.

Haha, just kidding.

He was going on Facebook, duh.

_To look up the man of his dreams._


	2. FML...?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, sorry. Does it seem like he’s in a bad mood? Because _he’s in a bad mood._

Thursdays are the worst because they’re like what Miracle Whip is to Mayo. If he really wanted a sad sandwich, he would’ve just used a regular sandwich to mop up the tears he cried while looking at his bank account. Fuck Thursdays; get that fake-ass Friday bullshit out his face — ‘kay, thanks.

Oh, sorry. Does it seem like he’s in a bad mood? Because _he’s in a bad mood._

Lance doesn’t understand how, despite all the energy and effort he pours into getting himself ready to face the day, nothing ever seems to get him prepared enough for a shitty commute. His train, the big beautiful 2 train that scales up and down the upper west side of New York City, decided to flip its shit as soon as he got on it and cancel itself _and_ every other train behind it with it’s fucking _“hurr hurr, i gots a signal problem, brochachos”_ line it pulls out of its ass every other day. **(1)**

Thankfully, there’s another train that he can use to get to his job.

EXCEPT IT NEVER COMES ON TIME. **(2)**

So this leaves him standing in a hot and crowded underground train station, breathing in huge lungfuls of what’s probably 80% toxic gas and 20% sweaty body odor (yeah, those are different) for thirty-five minutes, just waiting for the train to come. And when it finally gets there… It’s crowded. Too crowded.

Lance takes one look at the stuffed train car and shoves himself the fuck in.

 _“Excuse me; sorry; oops, my bad; sorry_ — _I need to pay rent; whoops; poor college student coming in!”_

Thank GOD for that guy, ‘cause thanks to that one guy, everyone else pushing and shoving their way into the train is promptly forgotten and ignored. Lance is in the safe.

Just kidding. _He_ is that one guy. ‘Cause desperate times calls for desperate measures.

All in all, things didn't get all that bad after that. The train moved on uptown with barely a hitch in its schedule. Even if the train car got more and more crowded and he was starting to breathe less and less air (this has _got_ to be a fire hazard), he managed to make it to his stop on 59th street fast enough for him to only be a few minutes late. Which in New-York-ese, meant half an hour. Boo-boo ca-choo. At least he wasn't an hour late like last time.

Things finally start to brighten up when, at his station, he finds he doesn't have to fight and battle his way to the exit like he'd usually have to when taking this train. Half the car dumps itself onto the platform, and Lance lets the crowd guide him right on out. He's practically smiling on his way up the stairs leading back to civilization, a smile that stays even when he learns that the universe apparently still has Murphy's Law in play, because the skies decide to open up and dump a shit ton of rain right on him. Right as he takes his first step onto the sidewalk of freedom and gulps in his first breath of fresh, acrid city air.

Standing in the middle of the sidewalk and ignoring the curses and death glares of other morning commuters he deliberately put himself in the way of because he wants to be petty, Lance stares at a shop right outside the train station. It's a shop with a fancy, tinted glass front and an “artisan wood” bar table on the inside, with matching, “rustic-inspired” wooden chairs, where a pretty blond with purple contacts and cherry-red lips sits and stares right at him with a look of one part pity and one part humor.

He (kind of, sort of) feels like crying, because _that’s his workplace_ — this fucking shop that’s literally, like, five steps from where he’s standing. He’s right in front of his workplace, and the skies wanted to rip open its ass for some fucking rain. **(3)**

It’s six-forty in the morning and already he wants to die.

Looks like this day’s gonna be a _great_ day for work!

:)

By the time he’s finally able to crawl into the coffee shop, there’s a handful of customers sitting inside with drinks. Rax was behind the counter, but he only grunts as a way to say hello instead of shooting him a dirty look for coming so late. That means Lotor’s already here, which means the guy actually came to work on time, _which means_ Lotor actually gave a shit and woke up early, _WHICH MEANS_ Lotor’s gonna have three whole sticks up his ass.

Lance _can’t wait_ to start work today.

“You’re late,” Lotor has the audacity to say. “And I just mopped. Don’t drip all over the floor like a wet dog.”

Lance shoots the man a withering look that turns more into a look of envy because Lotor has the nicest hair he’s ever seen. What’s his secret? Does he use argan oil? Coconut oil? The lifeforce of a thousand aliens harvested using brutal and inhumane methods of extraction?

Mmm, nah. It’s probably just good genes.

“You’re early,” says Lance, “And your hair doesn’t look like shit, for once. Did you finally get a hot date or something?”

A green apron smacks him right in the face. He was about to stick his hand into the garbage by the sink and throw one of their empty milk cartons at him, but (A) Lotor’s a snitch, (B) Hunk would be Disappointed, and (C) Lotor says something that shuts him the fuck up.

“Hunk told me if I’m late again, he’s gonna have to lay me off.”

Lance takes the apron off his face. He looks to Rax, who’s thick eyebrows shoot up as his eyes flick on Lance’s face in question. The two of them had always joked for months that this would happen, but they never really thought it would.

“I’m sorry,” is all he ends up saying, unfolding the apron and pulling it over his head. Rax, on the other hand, says nothing and passes empty cups scribbled with orders down to Lotor.

As Lance ties the strings of the apron around his waist, he watches Lotor’s impassive face carefully. Lotor’s skin is soft, pale, and free of blemishes, but Lance has known for years that Lotor uses concealer to erase the heavy dark circles under his eyes. Today, though, he thinks he sees a bluish tinge under Lotor’s eyes. That’s not like him.

Lotor suddenly turns to him with a scowl. “What?”

Lance frowns. “You okay?”

Lotor tosses his hair over his shoulder. “If you have time to throw a pity party, go mop up whatever you dripped all over the floor.”

Lance balks.

See what he means? Three whole sticks, all shoved up his pissy, lily-white ass. Whatever.

 _“Now,”_ Lotor hisses, “Before someone tries to sue _our_ ass for breaking _their_ ass.”

Lance, being the Extra person that he is, makes a low, sweeping bow and says in a deep, gravely voice, _“Yessss, masssstaaaah.”_

He gets a milk carton thrown at him and several stares from customers by the counter. Rax ignores his existence, taking people’s orders with a straight face and looking like he gives negative fucks.

But that’s okay, it’s all good. ‘Cause Lance ain’t no snitch. Fuck you lookin’ at, bitch? Back up. Whatchu lookin’ at his phone for, he ain’t textin’ nobody.

Pidge  
  
rax let lotor throw a milk carton at me

He gets an immediate response.

Then stop bothering Lotor  
  
wtf  
  
why you taking his side 

Lance scowls and slips his phone into his back pocket, ignoring it when it vibrates again because _wow,_ Pidge is a fucking sellout??? Just because Lotor bought her a new phone case that one time after accidentally splashing espresso all over it, doesn’t mean the guy’s suddenly best friend status. You gotta _earn_ that shit, damn.

Still stewing in his own salt, Lance gets the mop and bucket from the back room and considers not using any cleaner because, hello, _it’s just rainwater._ It’s not like it’ll cause death and destruction if he doesn’t bleach the shit out of it, right? Just mop up that rainwater and be done with it. Yeah. Yeah, that’s good. That’s a great idea. It’s both economical _and_ environmentally friendly!

And it’ll also piss Lotor off, so. There’s that.

Lance fills the bucket less than halfway with clean water before realizing— He’s supposed to be mopping _up_ water, not put more on the fucking floor.

Fuck.

He—

Lance slaps a hand to his face and groans loudly. Obviously, he was not awake. Or thinking.

He blames the shitstorm that was his morning commute.

He’s got the mop in his hand and leaving the back room when he sees none other than Allura Lyon crouching on the goddamn floor layering paper towels over the puddles. She’s wearing killer heels and a tight ivory lace top tucked into a black pencil skirt that makes him go both _“ffffffuuuuuck me, please”_ and _“hOW are you crouching on the floor in heels and a pencil skirt without breaking your ankles, what the fuck?”_ **(4)**

Lance tosses the mop into the backroom and ignores the sharp hiss of _“don’t_ break _it!”_ from Lotor. “Allura,” he starts, mildly mortified at the fact that a customer was cleaning up the mess he was supposed to take care of, “Allura, you don’t have to—”

“Oh, please,” Allura says with a laugh, “It’s just a little splash from the rain. I don’t mind.” She smiles and stands up, then, and that’s when he notices that she’s got an entire roll of brown paper towels tucked under her arm.

“Did you just jack that from our bathroom?”

“Well, I _was_ leaving the bathroom when Lotor made that stink over the world’s tiniest puddle. I do apologize for that, by the way. Sometimes my brother can be _quite_ a pain.”

“Grande caramel macchiato for the control freak in last year’s Versace heels,” they hear Lotor announce in a scathing tone. A pause, and then a calm call of, “And a venti Americano for Amalie.”

Allura shrugs, tossing her hair over her left shoulder with a flick of her diamond-studded wrist. “See what I mean?” **(5)**

“Uh-huh,” he says, but he’s not really listening to her. He’s too busy watching the way her luxurious, silver curls seem to float down her back like a large, soft cloud passing overhead in a bright blue sky. _Yeah,_ he thinks, _it’s gotta be genes._ There’s no way regular man-made hair products could make anything look like that. Allura Lyon and Lotor Galvagno have genes from the gods.

But you know who doesn’t have genes from the gods? That kid sitting over there, the one in the red and black plaid flannel and beat up, dirty black converse sneakers. Who the fuck wears that shitty outfit and isn’t an edgelord in disguise? And his hair, _god_ — if you’re gonna have a mullet, at least make it look like it’s your actual hair and properly condition the ends so it doesn’t look like you picked up some fucking roadkill off the side of a hot country road and glued it to the back of your head. Lance hoped he never had to see this guy while he worked here ever again, because that guy was a walking fashion disaster just ready to be thrown into a dumpster fire.

And, yeah, all of this makes him sound so petty and shallow, but seriously — he wouldn’t’ve gone on _this_ bad a mental tangent if the guy had just stopped at being an ex-emokid who still dressed like they were in middle school even in their— what, how old was this guy? Couldn’t be more than Lance’s age, so, like… late teens, early twenties? Yeah, this guy was definitely stuck in 2008, maybe even worse, because of his fucking hair. That chopped up, severely dehydrated nest of fur was atrocious.

Like he’d said earlier — if you’re gonna have a mullet, at least _make it look nice._ There were ways to do it; it sure as heck wasn’t impossible. _That_ guy, see — that one waaaay over there in the corner of the coffeeshop by the shop’s front, the one on his phone, for example, has a mullet that actually looks nice, and—

The guy in the corner suddenly jumps, and Lance watches as the guy proceeds to flip his shit in an attempt to catch his phone before it can fall out of reach and shatter right before his very eyes.

It’s a good thing Lance used to run track in high school, because he’s there to save the guy’s bank account from the inevitable doom of emptying out its entire contents in exchange for—

Lance freezes, because on the screen of the phone is a photo of himself. In it, he’s slightly sunburnt and wearing blue swim trunks. He can’t remember what he was pointing at, but he does remember that the drink he’s holding in his photo — which he stole from Pidge — tasted too much like wheatgrass for him to actually like it. Hunk, who’s leaning on his back, looks right at the camera and grins. Lotor’s the one who took this picture; Lance knows somewhere on Hunk’s facebook that there’s one that goes along with this, the one where he spits out the wheatgrass and Pidge dumps whatever’s left on his head. These are old photos, _very_ old photos — from two whole years back.

And they’re on this guy’s phone.

Lance’s skeevy creeper senses plunge into overdrive, and he’s feels a powerful surge of emotion threatening to turn into a hot, shaking mess.

Which means, he’s probably either gonna start crying and freaking out, orrrrr punch this guy in the face and _then_ start crying and freaking out.

Haha, _perfect._ Nice plan, Lance.

“I can explain,” says a voice that makes his heart skip a beat because oh, my god; ohhhhh, my god; _ohhhhhhh_ myyyyyyy _goooooood—_

It’s Keith.

Looks like today really _is_ a great day for work!

:)

It’s also a great day to go and throw himself into a blender, because KEITH IS HERE and of course the one cute guy who laughs at his shitty jokes and buys him his favorite treat disappears for a week and comes back to reveal that he’s some kind of stalker or serial killer or vampire or even a fucking alien from outer space—

“Don’t freak out,” Keith says in a rush of words, “Uhhh, I know what this looks like, but I swear it’s not— _I’m_ not— Hunk started this, I swear. He friended me on Facebook and we started talking—”

“Hunk did _what.”_

“—and then we somehow got around to talking about throwback Thursday? And then last night, he asked me to help him pick a photo—”

Lance puts on a dazzling smile, the first one of the day. “Oh,” he says, and didn’t really have much else to say because Lance was still digesting the fact that today apparently was National Sellout Day— which, of course, he never got the memo but the rest of his friends apparently did?? Because one of his best friends just sided with Lotor today while the other happened to be making moves oN HIS MAN— WHAT THE _HECK,_ HUNK???

“—Yeah, so,” Keith takes the phone back and frantically taps his thumb on the screen to return back to his Facebook DM log, “He starts sending me pictures last night and asking me what I think. But since you guys are best friends, they just all, _you_ know, happened to have you in them, and…. Yeah. That’s it, I swear.” Keith sears him with an intense look on his face that Lance momentarily gets lost in, not because he’s cute as fuck, but because he’s still stuck on one part of something Keith’s said.

“They, uh… They _all_ have me in them?”

“Yes, but I _swear to god_ I wasn’t—”

“It’s— It’s cool, man. I’m—” Lance feels his voice about to crack and stops talking just at the right moment. He clears his throat, very aware of the way Keith was still staring intensely at his face. Lance doesn’t even think the guy’s breathing. “Uh. I believe you.”

The intense look disappears from Keith’s face, and his shoulders sag as if some great weight had finally gone to dust. 

Until Lance’s opens his mouth again. “Can I see them?” he asks. And it’s not that Lance doesn’t trust Keith — cause let’s be real here, no matter how cute this guy is, a stranger’s still a stranger, ya know? It’s not that Lance has suddenly got trust issues or anything, it’s just that he needed to know what exactly Hunk was dishing out. It wasn’t like Hunk to be _this_ forward. He was a smooth guy, yeah, and he had game, sure.

BUT THIS WAS _HIS MAN_ AND HUNK NEEDED TO HOP THE FUCK OFF.

“Yeah? I guess, sure.”

He swipes through the photos, and it’s like traveling back through time. He sees an old photo from way back, when Hunk got a little crazy at the after-party the night of their high school prom and tried to climb on top of the bar. He sees himself pulling at Hunk’s leg with one hand as he frantically reaches out to block the camera with the other.

He laughs, strange as it is to see such a nostalgic photo on a stranger’s phone. When he swipes next, sees himself again, concentrating at the latte machines with Shay right beside him as she points to the temperature gauge on the espresso machine. Her mouth is open, as if she were right in the middle of explaining something as the picture was taken. Hunk appears only at the bottom of the photo, the upper half of his face taking up the entire foreground. There are a few more photos that follow: Lance and Hunk majorly freaking out at the bungee jump platform of Xcelerated Adventures, a shot of them with Pidge’s great dane stretched out on top of them— **(6)**

The next photo makes him stop. Hunk is nowhere in this one; it’s just him. He doesn’t remember ever seeing the photo before, which makes sense since he’s looking up at his giggling niece on his shoulders, the two of them soaking wet from falling off his surfboard together. He vaguely remembers this to take place on the same day Pidge dumped her nasty smoothie on his head.

When he exits from the photos, the chatlog stares cheekily up at him.  

whoops, wrong one  
  
ngl, that one’s a good pic  
  
cause i took it ;)  
  
(Thumbs Up Sign ≊ Thumbs Up)

He stares at it for a while, a stange, new feeling rising to gnaw away his burning jealousy as he slowly came to the realizationt hat Hunk wasn’t just making moves on his man.

Hunk was making moves on his man for _him._

Scratch National Sellout Day off the calendar and put in a new holiday— National Best Bro Day. No, National _Best Man_ Day. NO— _NATIONAL HUNK GARRET DAY._ With a parade and balloons and floats, maybe. He’ll make a speech. There’ll be a dance-off and Hunk’s world famous, uh— Would Hunk want to bake or cook? Both? Is that— Is that okay? Is that a thing you do at parades? Should the speech be at the parade, or should it come before? After? God, he had no idea how any of this stuff even worked—

“…Can I have my phone back?”

He pauses in the middle of figuring out which float should go ahead of what and where the podium should go and realizes that, hahahahaha, _‘this isn’t an actual holiday you idiot’_ and _‘you were staring at a stranger’s phone for so long, the screen’s gone pitch black, you socially inept, awkward fucking piece of shit.’ Fuck._

“So… Do you make all of your customers wipe down the floor, or is that, uh. Just for the special ones?”

A tittering laugh slips past his lips. “Hahaha, yeah… I mean, no. No, we don’t— At least, _I_ don’t make people wipe the floor. With napkins. From the bathroom. She stole those from the bathroom, those weren’t, like. The ones that go into the napkin dispensers. I mean, they aren’t even napkins, those are paper towels; and it’d be weird if we tried to stuff paper towels into napkin dispensers.”

“Yeah, that… That would be weird. And annoying. People would keep breaking them.”

“Really? I just think people wouldn’t use napkins and complain to us like they always do.”

“Yeah, but if you really need a napkin you’d… You’d find a way to get it out. I guess.”

“Y’think? I mean, they’re not really good anyway. The paper towels in the bathroom kinda just… Turn into mush when they get wet.”

“…Okay.”

The conversation stalls painfully, leaving the two of them staring at each other with slightly constipated looks of civil politeness, each garnished with a classic Forced Smile.

On the inside, Lance has already dug himself into a ditch. From the way Keith’s eyes kept dodging over Lance’s shoulder to where the door was, the guy was probably desperate for an escape route.

 _Oh, boy!_ Lance thinks as pain begins to settle into his cheeks from holding his strained smile, _Look at all of Hunk’s hard work, just about ready to fly away!_

 _Fix it, you idiot,_ growls his brain, grabbing desperately to keep whatever was left of his pool of courage from slipping through its fingers. _Fix it! FIX! IT!_

“So,” the word pops out of his mouth suddenly, making them both jump. Lance pretends he wasn’t startled by grinning widely and leaning forward, sliding an elbow on the counter where Keith’s belongings (a cup, a book, a backpack) rest, and dumps his cheek on his hand. “You come here often?”

Keith stares at him and says nothing for a long, long time.

Lance stares back with a grin and thinks about sawing his own head off with a popsicle stick. Because obviously that’s the better option.

“I don’t,” comes his halting response. Keith glances over Lance’s shoulder again, then outside through the windows. “I sort of… I don’t go out much. Except in the mornings. I used to go to another place, but it shut down. Something about selling liquor without a license, I think.”

Lance slowly nods his head. “Okay,” he says, because he wasn’t prepared for Keith to still be standing in front of him. Or give an actual answer.

“So, uh,” Keith scratches the back of his neck, pocketing his phone away and still awkwardly staring out the window, “When exactly does Hunk’s shift start? Does he work today?”

Something ugly coils tight around his throat. He bites his tongue and lets the sudden pain chase it away. “He doesn’t have a shift on Thursdays. He’ll be here on Friday, though. Around six?”

Keith frowns, glancing past Lance’s shoulder for a hot second. “Oh. Guess I won’t be seeing him around anytime soon, then.”

The ugly feeling that coiled in his throat now sits like a stone on his chest and drips bitterly into his stomach, the taste so strong he can taste it on his tongue. Lance leans back, putting a bit of space between them. The sudden movement makes Keith look at him, and Lance freezes. Keith stares openly at his face, an inquisitive look burning in his eyes. Lance isn’t sure what that means.

“Do you work tomorrow?” Keith asks him, eyes never leaving his face.

Lance feels his mouth go dry. “Uh,” he says, because Keith’s eyes are somehow smoldering his cheeks a bright red. “Yes,” he hears himself squeak out, and clears his throat, looking away to stare at how much water has collected by the street corner. There’s absolutely nothing pooling there now; everything is trickling nicely down into the gutter. Part of Lance wants it to flush him away, because maybe then his face won’t be on fire.

“In the morning? Same time? I can come by again.”

Lance sputters, choking on his own words. “You— You don’t have to do that. I mean, uh. Hunk’s in on Saturday. Early. Like, six. N-No, wait. That’s Shay. Uhhhh… Maybe, like. Seven, then. Or eight. He’s definitely in before ten. I’m not in on Saturday, though. It’s all Hunk. So you can, uh. You can come in and talk to Hunk however long you want, he’s cool. Or Shay. O-Or both, whatever you’re cool with. I’m cool. And so are you. Yeah. Cool.”

He flashes another dazzling smile and feels sweat trickling down the back of his neck as his brain screams, _YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO FIX IT, THIS ISN’T FIXING IT YOU STUPID DUMB FUCK_

Hahahahaha, yeah…

He watches Keith’s brow furrow deeply as he stares some more. Suddenly, his face turns lax as some kind of acknowledgement takes residence in his gaze and Keith says, with a light dusting of pink on his face, “I’m not here to see Hunk, I’m see to see—”

Lance swears his heart almost gets yanked out of his chest when a commotion at the front of the shop interrupts them when they’re right there. The door to the coffeeshop swings wildy open, making someone yelp and another person mutter something that’s probably not kid-friendly. Lance turns around on reflex, the words, _“Watch your language!”_ on his hypocritical tongue when— hot _damn,_ that is a beautiful man, fuck.

Said beautiful man comes in completely drenched, his black shirt skin-tight on a well defined chest and his jeans now an even tighter fit around perfect glutes and toned legs. This man did not skip leg day, hallelujah.

And he’s using those powerful legs to come here, holy _shit—_

Keith immediately gets up. “Shiro!” he exclaims, grabbing his backpack, “I didn’t know you were—”

The handsome man is only slightly irritated. “I saw you looking over at me while I waited outside in the rain.”

Keith hesitates. “I… wasn’t sure it was you?”

The handsome man closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath. It reminds Lance of how calm Pidge was that one day at the beach right before she dumped a smoothie over his head. He glances at the man’s hands for a second, which are empty, and then looks at the counter behind Keith. He nudges Keith’s cup (is that coffee?) further down the counter, away from either of them.

Operation: Save Hot New Not-Boyfriend-Yet Friend, success. _Yes._

The handsome man sighs long and deep. “It’s fine. Then, he turns to look curiously at—

Lance’s brain goes haywire; Ohmygod, he’s looking at me— HUUURRRK—

The handsome man smiles. “You’re Lance, right? Keith’s told me a bit about you.”

MAYDAYMAYDAY—CRASH IS IMMINENT; I REPEAT— _CRASH IS IMMIENENT_

While Lance tries to reboot his brain, Keith punches the handsome man in the stomach. Astoundingly, all the man does is laugh as if the punch never happened.

“Come on,” Keith growls, pulling on the handsome man’s arm, “I’m late to class.”

The handsome man’s smile turns to a cheeky grin. “You don’t have class on Thursdays.”

Keith drags them both out of the coffeeshop with a hasty, _“I’ll see you,”_ thrown in Lance’s way.

“O-Okay,” Lance returns haltingly, holding up a hand as the two of them growl and snicker all the way out of the coffeeshop.

Soft jazz quickly fills up the gaping lull of sound in the coffeeshop. It filters from the speakers into his ears, leaving a tingly buzzing sensation in his head. The patrons of the shop continue to drink to their own leisure, eyes roving over words on books and newspapers and bright screens, fingers curling over warm cups of lattes and cappuccinos and—

 _Coffee,_ Lance thinks, whirling around like a madman, _Keith was drinking coffee._

Lance picks up the cup of whatever was left, a shallow pool of milky coffee now cold.  He didn’t know Keith drank coffee. Didn’t he get tea the last time he was here? No, he asked for tea because they didn’t carry almond milk like every other hipster coffeeshop on the street. Did they carry it now? What does almond milk taste like? Did it taste like soy? It better not.

His train of thought is interrupted by the sound of low, hushed whispers, voices of people he recognizes. He looks up, surprised to see that he’s wandered back to the register while swimming idly in his thoughts.

Rax is handling the light stream of customers with a scowl on his face, brows so close together it almost looks like a unibrow. Down the counter, where the machines are, stand Allura and Lotor, shoulder to shoulder, each whispering to each other behind cups of coffee and staring appraisingly right at Lance.

“Nice hair, yes, but his eyebrows are…”

“His face is proportional, at least.”

“Yes. Yes, it is. But he’s quite short.”

“Do you think that was his brother? He was tall.”

“You mean to think he’ll grow?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.”

“They look athletic. What do you think they might be into?”

“If it’s soccer, that would be a nice match, don’t you think?”

“Swimming— Do you think he swims?”

Lance stares at them as they continue to whisper, glancing at each other every so often with an elegant arch of a brow before returning their piercing gazes on him.

He scowls. “You know I can hear you, right?”

Allura laughs, a charming sound. “Oh, don’t mind us. We’re just about done.”

“Besides,” Lotor tosses his silky hair over his shoulder and turns away sharply, “We weren’t talking about you.”

“Oh, certainly not.”

“Your face isn’t proportional.”

“Nor do you have an athletic build.”

“And your hair is lackluster at best.”

At this, Allura turns with raised brows. “Really? I think his hair is quite nice.”

“Really?” Lotor mockingly sneers, “And next you’ll think his jeans aren’t a poor fit.”

At this, Lance frowns. “What’s wrong with my jeans?” he asks, digging his hands into his pockets.

Lotor and Allura pin him with a look. Then, Allura sips her coffee in silence while Lotor goes back to doing his job.

Lance growls. “What’s wrong with my jeans?”

He’s too loud. He feels the patrons side-eyeing him from all corners of the coffeeshop. It makes him wish he could sink through the floor.

Allura smiles. “Nothing,” she says, reaching out with a hand. When he doesn’t take it, she comes over and pats his back. “They’re just, um. Large around the hips. It looks like your derrière is sagging.”

“Give me a break,” Lance mutters, rolling his eyes.

“No breaks,” Rax hisses, startling a customer from inserting her card into the chip reader. “I’ve been picking up your slack for an hour. Get to work, or I’ll get you fired.”

Lance scoffs. “Hunk would never fire me.”

Lotor says nothing.

Lance feels like an ass.

A saggy ass.

:)

There’s a light pull on the cup in his hands. Alarmed, Lance clenches it tight.

Allura retracts her hand immediately. “I’m sorry,” she says, “I thought you were done. I was going to throw it away.”

At this, Lotor stops and looks up. “I don’t remember you making yourself a cup of coffee.” Lotor’s eyes narrow as a knowing look alights in them. “...Are you drinking Keith’s leftovers?”

Heat rushes to his face like a geyser. “No,” Lance hisses, lying. “This is my coffee.” As if to prove a point, he downs the rest of the cup.

And immediately chokes, spitting it back into the cup and coughing.

“Who the fuck puts soy in their coffee?” Lance demands, throwing the cup into the trash bin behind the counter. **(7)**

“Your hot friend, apparently,” Lotor says, a delicate smile gracing his features. “Does that mean you don’t like him? Is he up for grabs?”

Lance digs the cup out of trash and throws it in Lotor’s face. “Back the fuck off,” he growls, not caring that it misses and clatters on the floor. Lotor looks like he doesn’t care either, which definitely means there’s a full moon out, because Lotor, for once, looks like he’s enjoying himself.

Rax, on the other hand, does not

He was also on his phone.

“Hey, Hunk. It’s me. Just wanted to say—”

“GET HIM!” Lance shouts, lunging bodily after Rax.

Lotor actually joins him, wrestling the phone away from Rax’s hand. Lance slaps a hand over Rax’s mouth, muffling the stream of curses and threats to quit while Lotor says goodbye to Hunk and ends the call. As Allura takes over behind the register as she’s done for them many times before, Lance trips on his own two feet and sends all three of them on the floor. They end up laughing, aprons ripped and hats askew; even Lotor, with his hair flying all over his face and a bruise coloring his chin, laughs out loud. Lance thinks the laugh is one of the nicest he’s ever head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **(1)** The 1, 2, and 3 trains are always fucking up, but never as badly as the A, C, E, B, or D trains. You can look at the train schedule for the 2 Train [here](http://web.mta.info/nyct/service/pdf/t2cur.pdf). The MTA also keeps live updates on their transport system [on their website](http://www.mta.info/).  
>  **(2)** The train he's taking is [the B train](http://web.mta.info/nyct/service/pdf/tbcur.pdf).  
>  **(3)** Based on the corner of West 60th Street and Broadway. See it on google maps [here](https://www.google.com/maps/@40.7689726,-73.9822989,3a,31.6y,354.26h,87.06t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1sDnnEgA4xNk09LVkwZKd-yA!2e0!7i13312!8i6656).  
>  **(4)** If you're interested, here's her [skirt](https://poshmark.com/listing/Banana-Republic-High-Waisted-Black-Pencil-Skirt-5838b7a1fbf6f9f8f304b7c1?utm_source=gdm&gdm_bottom=false&campaign_id=731570126&utm_campaign=731570126&enable_guest_buy_flow=true&gclid=EAIaIQobChMIre6Jx6rZ1QIVVDuBCh1DpQzvEAQYBCABEgJesfD_BwE), her [top](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/9f/9a/6e/9f9a6e1849814693b2485cc0f5f9d1df--white-lace-shirts-white-lace-tops.jpg), and her [heels](https://www.polyvore.com/cgi/img-thing?.out=jpg&size=l&tid=127764426%0AShow%20less).  
>  **(5)** her [bracelet](https://ae01.alicdn.com/kf/HTB1c1yrRpXXXXcEapXXq6xXFXXXo/2017-New-Elegant-Cubic-Zirconia-Gold-Bracelets-for-Women-CZ-Stone-Gold-Chain-Bracelet-Women-jewelry.jpg).  
>  **(6)** [Xcelerated Adventures](https://yourguidetoadventure.com/adventure_travel/bungee-jumping-adventure) is a well-known spot to do a variety of extreme sports/activities close to NYC. I've never been there because I like living :)  
>  **(7)** The line about putting soy in coffee comes from a comedy sketch by Brandon Rogers. See it on YouTube [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4xX1pMn8LvA).


	3. i live in a shithole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You can’t wear those boots with what you’re wearing.”  
>  “Chill out, dude, it’s not the worst thing in the world. I could’ve tried to wear my crocs.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually had this written a long time ago and forgot all about it. Oops.
> 
> There's one last part left, which originally was the last section of this chapter. I cut it off because I felt guilty for forgetting all about this fic. :V

Showering is the best thing in the world once you haul ass into the bathroom and get under a hot stream of water. Especially when you actually got that kind of free time, _and_ when you can be by yourself so you could shower in the blessed peace that only silence can give you. Plus, he’s always got all that spa stuff, and it’s nice when all your soaps and shampoos and conditioners and loofahs smell nice and match your mood and everything.

But right now, Lance is getting none of that nice shit ‘cause the fucking artist with the jacked up teeth and his whiny wife in the apartment one floor up used up all the hot water, and his shit-faced biker roommate used his loofah to clean up real, actual shit from their shared kitchen floor last night after he puked all over the fucking bathroom. Why the asshole’s shit wasn’t in the bathroom, he had no idea—nor did he _want_ to have an idea, because you know what? Rolo can just go and fuck himself, that’s what.

So now, Lance has to somehow lather his ‘ready-for-work’ soap without his ‘ready-for-work’ loofah, get all squeaky clean, dry himself off, dress himself in the bathroom, and then crawl out the bathroom window and fucking die, because there was absolutely no way that he was gonna spend all this goddamn time getting himself clean and step out into an apartment that stinks like stoner dooky and vomit just to pour liquid crack into recyclable cups that nobody actually recycles and fucks up whatever’s left of the world. Fuck. Fuck, Rolo. Just— Fuck.

Angrily, Lance lathers himself up with his grapefruit-lavendar-coconut soap and scrubs his skin the best he can with freezing fingers, teeth clacking noisily as he shivers. The water’s not even on because that’s how cold it fucking is; he’ll probably die of shock standing under a rain of ice, why bother keeping it on? Gotta conserve that body heat, yo.

When he finishes lathering soap and scrubbing his skin clean, he clenches his teeth and braces himself for the jet of ice-cold water. Which is great, it’s fine—he’s accepted his fate of possibly catching pneumonia and just wants to move the fuck on. Whatever. So hurry up, c’mon, blast him with that ice water you fucking piece of shit pipe, what the fuck you stallin’ for?

And then something happens that makes Lance smile a great big and beautiful smile as he stands in the shower, because just then a great stream of abso-fucking-lutely nothing but pure and genuine NOTHINGNESS comes out the shower-head.

What. The fuck. What the fuck?! What the fuck. What! The! FUCK!

A loud banging on the bathroom door makes Lance bare his teeth because Roland “I-Shat-Five-Steps-From-The-Bathroom” Carter is the last thing he wants to put up with on this bright and beautiful morning birthed by Satan’s asshole.

“Yo, Rolo! Fucking go shit or puke your guts out in your own mouth or whatever, ‘cause I’m staying in this fucking bathroom where it doesn’t smell like literal shit so I can go the fuck to work—which I will do once this fucking,” Lance slams his fist against the wall next to the shower-head, “piece of shit pipe,” **_BANG_ ** “actually does its job,” **_BANG_ ** “and lets me shower!” **_BANG_ **

And then, a voice he most definitely did not expect comes through the abused wood of the bathroom door.

“I don’t know who you’re talking to like that,” an affronted voice speaks primly, “That aside— Hurry up. Gas is expensive and your driver is unbearably impatient.”

Lance almost doesn’t register what Lotor says because ‘ _how the fuck did he get inside he doesn’t have the key’_ is all he can focus on until one word stands out like a peacock strutting through campus and somehow making its way into Aster Hall’s food court.

“Driver? _My_ driver? What—”

“I’m opening the door.”

Before Lance could protest, a thunderous bang practically rips away the last vestiges of whatever reverent silence Lance has left to himself and a hand boldly tears off the shower curtain to reveal one very cold, very confused and possibly somewhat sightly aroused college teen with a lather of fruity shampoo dripping down a nicely toned body.

Lotor freezes suddenly, eyes dropping down automatically to stare unblinkingly at his groin for what feels like an uncomfortably long period of time. “Why are you wearing swimming trunks in the shower?”

Mortified, Lance can only give a choked scream before he clocks Lotor right in the face.

 

* * *

 

He’s shucked off his trunks for boxers and jeans, and — after a really catty argument with Lotor that involved five jackets and three of his best button-downs that, apparently, only looked Wal-Mart-made at best _(“I got these at H &M!” “H and who, now?”) _— Lance was dressed and ready for work. Sort of. He’s pretty damn sure he just ruined his morning shower by stepping out into shitland and pukesville.

“Take this scarf and wrap it around your— Wait, you can’t—” Lance hears a hundred-year-old fatigued sigh and watches Lotor pinch the bridge of his nose, eyes screwed shut. “You can’t wear those boots with what you’re wearing.”

Lance almost seethes with anger and spite until he remembers how Rich Boy literally doesn’t know what it means to live like a Normal Person. And by ‘Normal Person’ Lance actually meant ‘poor college student living off federal aid and occasional deposits from his mom and his Starbucks paycheck.’

“Chill out, dude, it’s not the worst thing in the world. I could’ve tried to wear my crocs.”

At that, Lotor just narrows his eyes. “Why would you purchase—”

“Because they got good arch support and they’re blue.” Lance shoves Lotor out the door. “C’mon, let’s go—I thought you weren’t getting paid by the hour or whatever. Vámanos, esse. Wrap up that broken heart or your daddy issues or whatever. Yeah, you heard what I said, and no, I’m not taking it back. You’ve been real pissy to me today, more than you usually are.”

Lotor side-eyes him for a hot minute, as if to say, ' _Nah, I talk shit about your ass all day, every day.'_ Well, fuck you too!

“Kathryn will be taking you. She had me enter your apartment because your roommate is unsightly when drunk or hungover. Though, from what I’ve seen, your acquaintance seems to be unsightly in all manners of being.” Lotor is sneering as he talks, probably thinking about the shit-stinking apartment he had to enter, and the very eye-opening greeting of Rolo stewing face-first in a pool of his own dried vomit.

Talk about a first impression gone wrong. Going solely off that, Rolo’s definitely the type of guy Lotor hated, but first impressions didn’t prove much most of the time. Lance can bet his dick and balls that Lotor would piss his pants if he ever saw Rolo sober. Drunk Rolo wasn’t worth five cents, but Sober Rolo was a real suave motherfucker. Had to be, if Nyma kept coming back to him on her own free will.

And speaking of acting on free will, this Kathryn chick must be one classy chick for Lotor to willingly gopher for. Lance racks his head for any Kathryns he knows, but the only one he can think of is Kathryn A. Martin, the girl in his philosophy class with the killer spiking hand playing varsity for their school’s volleyball team. Not exactly Lotor’s type of girl, but hey—Kat was one smart chick who could hold her own in a bar fight. Maybe that’s what Lotor’s into—independent, ‘don’t mess with me’ girls with a fierce passion for life.

Oh, wait, Lotor’s gay. Nevermind.

“Who’s this Kat chick? Is she hot?”

Lotor looks at him like he’s slighted his mother and besmirched his family’s good name. Like a pissant, Lotor turns away from him. “There are certain moments where I consider you someone with brilliant ideas and an equally bright future. This is not one of those moments.”

Lance narrows his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Lotor steps out of the apartment complex and onto the street. “Why don’t you ask her yourself?” he offers, holding the goddamn door open for him with a regally neutral expression.

Lance scoffs, stepping forward. “And you tell _me_ to quit being extra. I see you, bitch, and you better watch your back when you're the one fuckin' up next. Heard?”

Lotor narrows his eyes as he get to the doorway, then swings the door into his face.

Lance whirls right real fast through the open space before the door can reach second base with him. _“Je_ sus, what the hell’s wrong with you?!”

Lotor’s already five feet away, heading for a silver, double-parked Tesla that’s blasting smooth hip-hop beats in finesse. Literally. He can hear how _“we got it goin’ on”_ in Cardi B’s voice along with some classic funky beats straight out of the 90s.

The image of seeing their world’s version of Draco Malfoy walking towards a car embodying the potential of humanity’s future as Cardi B and Bruno Mars supply the walk track makes Lance wonder what kind of future was in store for humanity. Because Lotor is strictly a _‘I don’t drive; Alfred, take me to the college’_ type of guy. Lance doesn’t know if Lotor even knows how to drive.

Okay, that’s an exaggeration, Lotor totally knows how to drive. Its how he drunk-crashed his dad’s Maserati and got dumped into a Starbucks job to pay for it in the first place.

Anyway. What he’s trying to say, is that there’s no fucking way Lotor bops his head to Bruno Mars and drives a Tesla, because those are Normal Person things and Lotor is in no way capable of being diagnosed as someone with ‘Normal Person’ status.

Thankfully, all is right in the world because when Lotor gets to the car he yanks open the passenger door and—

“Uh, why do you have a black eye?” asks a voice that shouldn’t belong to someone in the driver’s seat because gremlins don’t quality for a driver’s license in New York City. “Lance, what did you— Oh, I like your scarf—”

Lance moved to slug Lotor in the arm. “Dude, man—”

Lotor slapped his hand away. “Don’t. Touch me.”

“—that’s Pidge you’re talking about,” Lance continues as if Lotor hadn’t said a word, “Pidge isn’t a Kathryn, she’s a Katie.”

They spoke simultaneously: “Katie is just a nickname.” “But I _am_ Kathryn.”

“Guh,” was his response. Lance stared at Pidge, aka ‘Katie,’ aka ‘the Kat chick,’ aka ‘Kathryn,’ and then at Lotor, who’d already strapped himself into the back seat and was looking expectantly right back at him with his arms crossed.

“Do you mind? We’re going to be late for work.”

Without another word, Lance got into the car.

“About time,” Pidge groused, locking the doors and dropping her shades back down with a grin. “Time to blast, my dudes.”

And then, like a goddamn 90’s movie, Smash Mouth’s _I'm a Believer_ started playing as soon as Pidge sent the car screeching down the street at a very illegal speed.


	4. don't stop me now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s got groceries to buy for his future husband.

_ “Wake me up! Before you go-go — don't leaaave me hangin’ on like a yo-yo—”  _ **(1)**

It’s not that he’s got anything against pop music from the 80’s, but Smash Mouth was the most recently recorded track that’s been blasted so far. Pidge’s casual quip of  _ “oh, that’s my meme playlist” _ does in no way supply the information necessary to explain how somebody could blow through fifteen-minute’s worth of 80s classics and NOT play the most iconic song in the history of meme culture.

He knows what he has to do. He’s gotta take action.

He’s about to change the course of history (aka, their dreadfully long car ride) when Pidge slaps her phone against his knuckles the second his hand leaves his lap. 

_ “Ay!  _ Pidge! I just wanted—”

_ “No.” _ Pidge grits her teeth. “We are  _ not _ listening to Rick Astley, because you and I both know that’s followed by you changing songs every five seconds.”

“Aaaaauuuuuggggghhhhhh,” cries Lance, sinking low into the plush leather interior. “This is the worst! You won’t let me sing, you won’t let me dance—”

“We’re in a car,” Lotor interrupts.

“—and now I can’t even choose a song. We’re stuck in traffic! What am I supposed to do?”

A hard kick shoves him off the backrest and has him hitting the back of his head into it a second later. It didn’t hurt, but the juvenile seat-kicking from Lotor really pissed him off.

“Stop shouting,” he says, “You’re ruining a good song.”

“I hate you,” Lance growls, and folds his legs up against his chest so he can work on his life goal to become one with the passenger seat. With Pidge at the wheel and a shitty banter partner in the backseat, the car fills with WHAM!’s boppy, choral repetition of  _ “wake me up! befooore you go-go!” _ Lance doesn’t wait for the vocalizing outro to begin before he decides WHAM! needs to get cut.

“Alexa, play Despacito.”

“Lance, this isn’t an Amazon device, it’s an i— _ ” _

Lance raises his voice. “ALEXA, PLAY DESPACITO!”

Pidge yanks the aux cord. “You’re on time out,” she grumbles, tossing the cord back. It hits Lotor in the face. “Oops. My bad.”

From the side mirror, Lance sees Lotor shoot him a dirty look. Big whoop, he thinks, and is about to ignore the fact that he had nothing to do with Lotor’s fragile baby skin getting whacked by a cord and let it slide on by when a sharp kick to the back of the chair makes him experience a whole new level of whiplash that lets him see stars.

Lance scrambles upright to whirl on the nasty piss-baby with a snarl. “What are you, five?!”

Lotor ignores him completely and unclasps the wireless earbuds hanging around his neck.

“You! I hope you fucking shit yourself--”

“Classy.”

Lance sputters. “Shut— Shut your rich boy ass up—”

“Rich boy ass?” Lotor snorts. 

“Yes,” Lance grits out, “Cause you don’t seem to get that not everyone can pull money out their ass for everything.”

“Maybe I  _ should _ shit myself, then. Just so you can afford to live somewhere that isn’t a shithole.”

Lance sputters. “You— You—! Go ahead! Go shit yourself! I’ll shit on you, too! Turn you into the city dump—”

“No municipality wants to contain your worthless dribble—”

Lance tries to lunge for him, but the car suddenly pitches forward with a squeal of tires and sends him crashing face-first into the headrest of the passenger seat. Next thing he knows, the car has gone completely still besides a fire hydrant and sirens wail in the distance, growing louder and louder every second. 

“Sorry,” Pidge cuts in as two cop cars blow past, “had to make room. Also, your shit jokes were getting really weird. Please stop.”

“Yes, Lance,” Lotor has the fucking audacity to say, “Show some restraint.”

“Restraint?” Lance digs his nails into the headrest of his seat and bares his teeth. “You want  _ me _ to show some restraint?!”

Pidge’s eyes get big. “Yo, Lance,  _ chill. _ Here—” Pidge ditches the wheel to twist and contort herself around to grab the aux cord from the floor of the backseat, “—I’ll play Rick Astley.”

“No, I want Queen.” Lance grabs Pidge’s phone and punches her passcode in. 

Pidge plugs the aux into the car’s stereo. “Okay.”

Lotor snorts. “Of course you do.” Silently, he mouths  _ ‘drama queen’ _ and rolls his eyes. Lance wishes  _ he _ could roll his eyes—he’d roll them right down out of Lotor’s skull and have ‘em running down West End Avenue—

Oh, look, traffic’s moving.

“Finally,” Pidge sighs, switching on the turn signal and drumming her fingers on the wheel.

By the time Pidge leaves the hydrant and gets onto the road, Lance has finished sorting through by artist and hit shuffle. A few seconds of silence later, the soulful ballad intro of _Don’t Stop Me Now_ starts playing.

The car lurches to a sudden stop. Lance almost drops Pidge’s phone. Behind him, Lotor swears under his breath.

“Oh, for the love of…” Pidge hits her head against the car horn, letting loose a loud blast of noise.

Lance bottles up his frustration by listening intently to how smoothly the song shifts to an upbeat bop, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists tight on his knees because—  _ “I’m having such a good time, I’m having a ball—”  _ **(2)**

Breathing through his teeth, Lance turns to stare out the window, hoping the city’s pedestrian scenery has something interesting to offer. But watching people walking up and down West End while he’s stuck in a damn car kinda pisses him off even more, so he ends up drilling holes into the skull of a nervous-looking chihuahua hanging out in a parked car. It starts yapping at him, hanging over the half-opened window of one of the back seats, and Lance wonders how long it’d take for it to lean far enough to plop right out of the car.

Which, yeah, he knows is mean. But he’s fucking bored. There was NOTHING to look at while he was stuck on West End, and that was a damn shame. He was in a weird nook of town, not too far uptown but not far midtown enough for anything fun to look at. All he was able to stare at now was the side of a sad-looking Western Beef and some Jewish education center. **(3)**

And the chihuahua. And even that thing’s gone, now. It’s on the other side of the car, yapping away at a poster of a dog-walker surrounded by a happy-looking pack of dogs. 

Lance shakes his head. What an idiot.

His eyes rove down the posters displayed on Western Beef. Most of them had to do with special prices on food items: $5.99 for a whole rotisserie chicken; two bags of Takis for $5.50; buy 2 packs of Chips-Ahoy! chocolate chip cookies, get 1 free; two cartons of Silk-brand Almond Milk for $6; a free bunch of bananas with a purpose 4 boxes of Kellog-brand family-size cereals—

Wait.

One of these things is actually important. 

And he isn’t just talking about the Takis; those are mega-fucking-super important. Note to self: buy six bags,  _ STAT. _

One of these things is really, really important. Really,  _ really _ important, like, ‘bells ringing in your head’ important, or like ‘looking off-camera for a dramatic flashback’ important. So important, Lance can feel his eyes burning with the sheer intensity of how hard he’s staring.

“Oh, thank god,” Pidge sighs somewhere in the near distance, “We’re finally moving again—”

Lance slams his fingers into the release button of his seatbelt buckle and throws open the door to the passenger’s side. The car lurches suddenly again, but Lance keeps himself from crashing into the dashboard with a firm hand and a purposeful gaze locked solely on the row of posters on Western Beef. 

“Dude, what the fuck?!” “You idiot! What do you you’re doing?”

Music spills out into the street. Freddie Mercury’s voice is an anthem for his dreams—  _ “Don't! Stop me noooow! I'm having such a good tiiiime! I'm havin’ a ball!” _

Lance jumps out of the car, nearly tripping in his rush to get to Western Beef that he bangs his knee against the car with the chihuahua, who’s yapping and howling something fierce. It hurts like a bitch, but he doesn’t care—he’s got stuff to do.

He’s got groceries to buy for his future husband.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **(1)** Lyrics to WHAM!'s "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go." Listen to it [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R14lGgHgVJM).
> 
>  **(2)** Queen's "Don't Stop Me Now." Listen to it [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fu1c3ryidNQ).
> 
>  **(3)** The section of West End Avenue I'm describing can be found [here](http://www.google.com/maps/@40.773687,-73.9889236,3a,75y,303.33h,82.99t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1sCA_fIYmEUqt2Jav_IBtXEA!2e0!7i16384!8i8192)


	5. rip, wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You don’t like my fingering?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I thought this was gonna end in, like, 3 chapters but I GUESS NOT? I still have an endgame in mind, and it'll get there. There's just... all this stuff that keeps popping up and pushing the endgame further. Oh well :V

His parents always got on his case about never joining any sports clubs when he was in high school, and it took about five years and ten months for Lance to realize how utterly and stupidly right they were. It also makes him realize something else: that he’s going to die from trying to carry two cartons of milk up the hill on West 60th Street. But it’s a tragic sacrifice he’s prepared to make. **(1)**

“Lance, get in the car.”

_A tragic sacrifice—_

“Lance, come on.”

_—that he’s prepared to make._

“Lance,” Pidge hisses. She pounds on the car horn with every word she says. “Get. In. The. Car.”

Lance stops his sweaty trek up the infamous hill on West 60th, and turns slowly to look Pidge square in the eye.

“Come on, it’s like ninety-three degrees out right now and you’re wearing boots and that stupid scarf—”

Lance halts in his tracks. “I thought you said you liked the scarf.”

“I-I _do,_ it’s just— It’s so hot out, how can you stand it?”

“I told him not to wear both,” Lance hears Lotor grumble from inside the car. “He looks ridiculous. Where does he think this is, LA?”

Nostrils flaring, Lance marches right up to the car. “Hey!” He pounds furiously on the tinted window of the backseat. “This whole get-up was _your_ idea! I would’ve just worn whatever I wanted if it wasn’t for your dumb ass—”

Pidge swats at Lance’s hands. “You’re hitting my car, you doof. She’s delicate. And expensive. And also not mine—this is my dad’s car.”

Immediately, Lance withdraws his pounding. “My bad.” He gives the car a gentle pat.

“Are you done?” shouts a voice. It belongs to a lady driving a silver Honda, the first car in a long line of cars running downhill West 60th. She looks like she wants to strangle them. And she probably would, judging by the definition of muscle in her arms. She probably does crossfit. “This is not the time, man,” she shouts at them, “Either get in the fucking car or leave! We have jobs to get to!”

Behind her, the other drivers follow suit, shouting curses and honking their horns.

Without hesitation, Lance gets in the car. From the passenger’s side. Which means he’s scrambling to get around the car to get to the passenger’s side while the entire line traffic screams their heads off.

“Are you serious??” “Go fuck yourself!” “Please, god, I can’t get fired again, please—”

Lance throws himself into the passenger’s seat. He barely has time to buckle himself in before Pidge steps on the gas and peels out of there.

He gets out of the car again in three minutes.

Cause his workplace is two blocks from the hill.  
  


* * *

 

When you’re two hours late for work…

…

That’s it! That’s the end of the joke. ‘Cause that just speaks for itself, y’know? Like, who the fuck is two entire hours late for work? And doesn’t call ahead? And expects not to get chewed out? And walks right on in pretending nothing’s wrong at all?

Not Lance, that’s for sure. He’s a good boy; he called in late eons ago.

Just kidding, he totally forgot to do that. Pidge probably has him covered, since she’s responsible and all, but damn, he definitely forgot to do that. Imagine if he hadn’t been with Pidge? Hoooo, he’d be walking right into a shitshow. He’s getting a killer headache just thinking about that. Thank god Rax doesn’t hate him.

Just kidding! Again!! Because Rax! Hates! His! Guts!!! Which really sucks because Rax is Hunk’s number two when it comes to all the fancy _“I’m the manager”_ type of stuff that goes on around here, like what specials they’re opting in for, and who’s turn it is to clean the espresso machine, and how many times can they get Lance to mop up the floor before he realizes it doesn’t need mopping at all.

Jackasses, all of them. Except one jackass is redeemable and actually loveable while the other is… bleeeugggh.

Lucky for him, bleeeugggh isn’t here, and Hunk is manning the counter while Acsha and Ezra work the bar. Weird, Lance thinks, because Rax has never missed a day of work for as long as eternity, especially since the guy’s apartment alone demands three-grand. Was he sick? Doing inventory? Sitting on the crapper? Playing hooky? **(2)**

Ezra’s the first one who sees them. Her whole face lights up as she starts bouncing in front of the screaming latte machine. “Ooh, ooh! They’re here! Hiii! Lance! Pidge! Lolo!”

“Lolo?” Lance echoes, Pidge doing the same except she doesn’t look constipated from holding in a giant stream of mouth-diarhea. Lance, on the other hand, definitely does, ‘cause _Lolo??_ Oh my god, he has _so_ many questions--so many, in fact, that he’s getting dizzy just thinking about them all.

“Lotor.” Acsha wipes her hands on the front of her apron. “How was your commute?”

“Dreadful.” Lotor flicks something off his shoulder and tosses his hair over his shoulder. “Though, I must admit, it had more to do with the kind of company I was forced to keep. Not Kathryn, of course. She was wonderful.”

Exhaustion and the need to hurry up and get to work is the only thing that keeps Lance from saying anything. He still shoots Lotor a dirty look, which gets entirely ignored, but whatever. It’s the thought that counts, right? And right now, his thought is one, get to work, and two, get some water, it is fucking hot like a motherfucker today, holy shit.

“Anytime,” Pidge chirps before waving at Hunk. “Heeey! We made it, bud!”

“That’s great,” Hunks responds absently as a suit at the register hands over a scrap of paper scribbled with coffee orders. “Hooh, boy,” he says, holding the note out toward the bar with one hand while entering it into the computer with the other, “This one’s a Fordham order! Five cafe lattes, two Americanos, one vanilla frap with strawberry syrup, and three macchiatos—one hazelnut, the other two caramel, and make one of the caramels a triple and one of them soy. All grandes, except the hazelnut. Let’s go, go, go!”

Everyone scrambles. Lance kicks open the swinging door at the counter, almost whacking Acsha in the shin and getting a dirty look in the process, and ducks into the back to change into his uniform and drink what feels to him like a gallon of water so cold, he actually has to stop and steady himself because the room starts spinning. Pidge and Lotor follow suit only a second after, but Lance had already scrubbed his hands clean and has them dried by the time the others have finished tying their aprons.

“Whoa,” Pidge laughs suddenly, “Dude, you actually did it!”

Lance has no idea what Pidge is talking about, but he doesn’t care about anything Lotor may have done (it was probably gonna be something lame, like a pocket protector _à la mode vintage_ or whatever). Plus, he’s two hours late and taking too long to put on an apron and show up with scrubbed hands wasn’t gonna help his case, no matter how hot it was outside or how much his head was trying to kill him.

He bursts out the back room as Ezra is adding whipped cream to a vanilla frappuccino with pink swirls. “Dibs on Mach 3!” he announces, wincing slightly because gee, that was a hell of a lot louder than he thought. Ascha helpfully points to where the grande cups are laid out next to the espresso machines. “Ooh, good, you saved me the best part.” Grinning, Lance holds out his hands and wiggles his fingers. “Time to milk ‘em.”

Ezra makes a grimace. “Ew, Lance, don’t do that. It’s creepy.”

Lance grabs three clean pitchers and fills two with whole milk and one with soy. “What, the fingering or the milking?”

“The—” Ezra stops suddenly. “Gross,” she scowls, wrinkling her nose. “The thing with the fingers, stupid.”

“What?” Lance shouts over the hissing latte machine. “You don’t like my fingering?”

Three voices call him in unison. _“Lance.”_

“I know, I know. Work mode, _on.”_

Things cool down a bit once Lance flips his work switch on. And by ‘cool down’ he means ‘gets steamy’ ‘cause he’s steaming up some milk with his thick wand, hollaaaa—

OH MY GOD, THE MILK!

Milk froth foams madly in the metal pitcher the same way he imagines he’d be frothing at the mouth if he were in a cartoon because HOLY FUCKING SHIT he left his engagement milk in the car. Shit. Shit. Fuck. Shit.

He’s mentally listing out the pros and cons of going back to Pidge’s car to get the milk as a gremlin nags at him at his right, his head pounds like a drum, and Lotor all but pisses himself because of something about the milk, and god, he knows he left the milk in the car, don’t bring that up, don’t you think he knows about that already, jeez.

He decides, as Lotor shoves him and he shoves back — (“Fuck off, _I’m_ in charge of the machiattos.” “Then make them, you _idiot.”)_ — that getting the milk isn’t worth it because that means he needs to tell Hunk, run off before Hunk says no, cross the street, go to the underground lot, find Pidge’s car, get the milk, run back, and et cetera, et cetera, until he’s back in his station at the bar.

That, he tells himself as he pours a splash of steamed milk into two cups of espresso and tops each with off with milk foam, is too much work. Besides, what were the chances of seeing Keith? The guy hasn’t exactly earned himself a spot on the regular’s list.

Lance sets the finished machiattos on the counter with the other items on the Fordham order and is about to go and make the soy caramel order when a strong hand clasps his arm in a familiar manner.

“Hey!” says the handsome man from that one really rainy day, the same day he made a fool out of himself in front of his future husbando and got an indirect kiss a la shared coffee cup. Shiro is beaming down at him. “It’s Lance, right?”

Lance can feel the thrumming work energy at the bar dying down as Ezra and Ascha burn their eyes into his back and whisper in some weird, made-up ‘bff’ language of theirs.

“Yeah,” Lance answers after his two-seconds of looking dumb and stupid. He eyes Shiro up and down and realizes he was the suit at the register earlier. Whaaat the heck…

“You remember me, right? I was here waiting for Keith last week.” The handsome man presented an open hand that Lance, after having gone of numerous job interviews, automatically took to shake. “I’m Shiro.”

He must not have met his daily quota of looking dumb and stupid, because all he says in response to that was an elongated _“uhhhhh”_ while his arm flops up and down from Shiro’s handshake. He feels his arm fall still a moment later, but he’s still registering the fact that KEITH’S HOT DADDY FRIEND is standing right here in front of him.

Shiro glances at their clasped hands for a second before letting go with an awkward smile. Lance wants to die so bad, his head spins and his stomach feels seconds away from telling him exactly how it thought this conversation was going.

He’s probably already dead, actually, because he starts to hear things, like, Shiro telling him he looks nice today, and what school is he attending, and how is his semester going so far, and what’s his major, and how long has he worked here, and what are his off days and—holy shit, Hot Daddy is going to ask him out, holy fuck—

From the deep recesses of his mind, his pounding head drags his hallucinations out into reality.

“Shiro,” he hears his husbando scowl, “What are you doing here?”

Shiro grins and holds out his phone. “Aww, you look so cute!” he croons, which Lance thinks of is weird, because normally people don’t interact with other people’s hallucinations.

“What— Hey! _Don’t take a picture!”_

…?

Wait a second…

“My little boy, all grown up and working his way up to corporate.” Shiro brushes a fake tear from his face as the entire room spins and blur behind a weird, hazy instagram filter. Probably Stinson. Or Waldo.

“I’m proud of you, Keith.”

“Stop being so embarrassing. God, you’re worse than my mom.”

“Wow, you’re super cranky today. Must be because you had to wake up two hours before you usually do.” Shiro laughs and leans on the counter. Then, he turns a sly grin at Lance. “Looks like he could use some coffee, don’t you think?” He winks.

RIP, Lance Sanchez-McClain; 1998-2018; Loving son, brother, and friend.

And then, the craziest thing happens.

He actually passes out.

 

* * *

 

Voices.

_“...gonna kill me—”_

_“Nah, Veronica will… all the time...”_

Sighing.

_“...hadn’t said anything about… at the tap…”_

_“He_ was _running… Western Beef had…”_

_“...60th?? Why the hell…”_

_“...milk cartons, and then he…”_

_“...a scarf in ninety… crazy?”_

Scowling.

 _“...told him not to wear both_ _.”_

Wailing--Cops. No, an ambulance.

Extra — That’s _so_ extra—

_“Why… telling him what to wear?”_

Keith.

....Keith! Oh, shit, _Keith._

Fuck.

RIP, wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **(1)** You can check out the street route [here](http://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.google.com/maps/dir/W%2B62nd%2BSt%2B%2526%2BWest%2BEnd%2BAve,%2BNew%2BYork,%2BNY%2B10023/40.7691355,-73.982578/@40.7713173,-73.9887118,18.17z/data%3D!4m9!4m8!1m5!1m1!1s0x89c2585dd4342dbb:0x369666ee14ec59e7!2m2!1d-73.989087!2d40.7735005!1m0!3e2&sa=D&ust=1532641730998000&usg=AFQjCNEyfLfTtzlT6qtBH-k4demaU_BFNw).
> 
>  **(2)** Ezra is Ezor  & Ascha is Acxa. I just couldn't bring myself to write something set in a modern setting with alien names. They go by Ezor and Acxa, just not IRL.

**Author's Note:**

> "s-tover" on tumblr. Come say hi!


End file.
